


Tales the Bards Don't Sing

by nateyface



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition, Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dragon Age Fusion, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, p much all the Inquisition members and AH crew will be there, will update tags as the story progresses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-03
Updated: 2015-05-03
Packaged: 2018-03-28 21:27:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3870352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nateyface/pseuds/nateyface
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the explosion at the Conclave, Kirkwall residents Geoff Ramsey and Michael Jones receive a summons to Haven to assist with this 'Inquisition' Tethras's scary friend is working on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tales the Bards Don't Sing

> When one stands in Lowtown, all one sees other than the rocky walls is Hightown. It glitters overhead, always in sight, yet always beyond reach.
> 
> _—From_ In Pursuit of Knowledge: The Travels of a Chantry Scholar _, by Brother Genitivi_

  


Lowtown is too quiet this morning - this week - this fortnight, Geoff mumbles. Word of the wreckage in the south is still filtering in; first the loudest messengers at the heart of Kirkwall announced the death of the Divine, then slowly details filled in through smaller groups and slower messages, until now the news comes in whispered names of those confirmed lost. Mages, Templars, officials of every stripe - some names Geoff recognizes, many he doesn’t. He waits for news of friends he knew were headed for the Divine Conclave. It doesn’t arrive.

The day slides by as though squeezing past him to reach somewhere more important. Not much money to be made legitimately in times like this. He closes his stall early and sinks into the deepest pits of Kirkwall for better business.

\---

Michael spits into the palm of his hand. “We have a deal.” He offers a handshake to his client, a dwarf with ribbons in her beard. “Tomorrow. Dawn.” She claps hands with him, nods, and disappears into the shadows.

He leans back against a wall of dust and sighs through his nose. Most clients in the past few weeks sought information or protection outside of the city, and he’s strictly muscle within Kirkwall’s borders. The occasional Lowtown security stint is the best he can really hope for.

With a hand on his sword, Michael strides back into the torchlit areas of Darktown. He keeps his eyes sharp for someone looking lost, maybe a merchant hoping for an armed escort or something slightly less illegal than the usual fare in this part of the city. 

“Jones.” Geoff’s voice snaps the shadows like a string pulled too taut. “Any leads?”

Michael shakes his head. He can’t even see Geoff yet, wherever the man’s perched. “No luck. Just a lot of hopeless fucks.”

“Any good jobs?” Michael spots the toe of Geoff’s boot. “Never mind, honestly. I would have heard.” There’s a weary twist to Geoff’s ordinarily jovial tone.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“No problem, buddy.” Geoff steps fully into Michael’s view. “If I don’t get word from Tethras in another two days, I might start marching to Ferelden myself.”

Michael snorts. “If you can sneak me out, sure.”

Geoff smiles. “Maybe I should get working on that. Don’t suppose you’d mind becoming a crate of mixed nuts or something?”

“I’ll be a crate of mixed nuts right now if you ask.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

\---

Geoff ends up spending the night in Darktown, ferrying letters between an ex-templar and his lyrium dealer. It’s not his proudest work, but the tips are good. In the meantime, Michael rests for his job at dawn in their Hightown estate. Geoff slides into bed at home just as Michael is sitting up and stretching his arms like a refreshed housecat.

“Morning, Michael,” Geoff mumbles with his face in the pillow. Michael ruffles Geoff’s dark, still-filthy hair and grins.

“G’night, boss.”

Geoff’s eyes fall shut as soon as Michael closes the door behind him, but it feels like only an instant before he hears the flutter of wings and a tap against his partially-open window. He squints through the dark at the beady eyes of a raven.

“The fuck do you want?”

The raven taps his window again and he rolls across the bed to reach an angle where he can push the damn thing open with his foot. The bird hops in just enough to drop a tightly-rolled note. As it makes the softest ‘thunk’ against his table, his chest tightens. An unfamiliar bird with a serious-looking delivery could only be Tethras. Or word of whatever happened to Tethras.

He unrolls the note with shaking hands, sitting up to squint uselessly at the tiny script. It takes him entirely too long to think of lighting a candle.

_Ramsey - need you in haven. bring your kid._

“You could sign your fucking letters, maybe,” Geoff hisses. The raven pecks at his windowsill. He turns the note over and grabs his inkwell to dip a finger in.

_Yeah._

He blows on it, rolls it up hastily, and shoves it in the raven’s claw, his hands still shaking. The bird flies off without hesitation.

“So you _are_ alive, asshole.”

\---

Michael waits with his hand on his sword. The sky is pink and orange when the dwarf with ribbons appears at his side, her collapsed merchant stall neatly arranged in a barrel on wheels. She nods to him and they start off on the path she outlined last night.

The Carta almost definitely knows they’re moving, so Ribbons has a few shortcuts to take, and her lyrium supply is in three separate stashes on their way. Michael’s dealt with Carta in small numbers before, so when his client is pulling out false stones from an alley wall and he hears an out-of-place creak of leather, he’s immediately ready. His sword makes quick work of the first attacker, easily jabbing through a gap in the opponent’s armor before Ribbons has even acknowledged there’s a fight.

“Hurry,” is all Michael says as he flips down the visor on his helmet. His blade meets the stomach of another Carta thug as Ribbons shoves an entire stone in her pack and tucks a fabric-wrapped block in her barrel. Michael easily deflects a knife blow from the third attacker and swipes at an unguarded knee. As the thug stumbles, he takes the chance to swing hard at their head, knocking them off to the side.

Ribbons steps over the prone Carta, and after wiping his blade on a fallen figure’s tunic, Michael leads the way out of the alley. He tips up his visor to squint around for more hostiles, trying to hold onto the adrenaline rush for as long as possible. _Keep alert, keep alive,_ he repeats to himself as they move toward the next stash.

The tingling in his fingers fades after Ribbons empties the second alley wall without incident. He dares to hope the Carta only sent a few underlings as a formality, to make a statement to his client - though it’s not his _thing_ to guess at the motives of criminals. That’s more Geoff’s area.

They stop in an alley with a sharp corner, and Ribbons reaches to access her last stash in the space behind a boarded-up window. Michael’s ready to ease the tension from his shoulders until he hears the crisp sound of metal boots.

“Drop the lyrium and you might live,” a gruff voice threatens as Michael turns to face the source. Three men in tarnished Templar armor fill the width of the alley easily - and from the sounds of it, there’s more of them coming. Michael drops his visor.

“How about fuck off?” he answers. There’s a clatter behind him - Ribbons dropped something. The lead Templar takes a step forward and Michael feels his heart drop to his feet.

The next few moments feel like their own small eternity. Michael swings his free hand, grabbing at the Fade for a burst of bitter cold. Icy air blasts into the first Templar with pressure enough to make him stumble back, and the chill freezes him mid-step for the moment. There’s a long, warped instant where the men behind him fall into stunned silence, and Michael takes that moment to grab Ribbons and hurl her over his shoulder. She clings to the grip of her wheeled barrel, so as their attackers are still figuring out how to get around their frozen comrade without snapping his icicle arms, Michael and his client are clattering freely down the open end of the alley.

Breaking from their planned route, Michael carries Ribbons the most direct way to the docks he can find, stumbling downward in one of the most harrowing staircase descents ever attempted. He finally skids to a stop in front of a warehouse and gingerly returns Ribbons to her feet.

“Do me a solid and don’t tell anyone about the whole ‘magic’ thing,” he says between heavy breaths. He pulls off his helmet, immediately taking gulps of sea air and savoring the feeling of the cool breeze on his sweat-soaked curls. “Now pay up and get on your fuckin’ boat, ma’am.” She hands him a sack of coins rather heavier than he’d expected and flags down a sailor. Michael ducks around back of the warehouse to count his pay, satisfied Ribbons could handle herself from there.

“Somebody’s really shit at keeping secrets,” he hears from above him somewhere.

“Maker’s balls, Geoff,” Michael gasps out. “The fuck are you doing?”

Geoff drops to the ground in front of him, expression serious. “I got a letter.”

“A bad one?” Michael chews his lip.

“A summons. Tethras wants us in Haven.” Geoff strokes his mustache. “I’m pulling a couple favors, but Orwald’s on duty down here and I don’t want you getting caught. Ready to be cargo, buddy?”

Michael glances down at himself and the bloodied shine of his armor, considers the sheen of sweat across his face, and grins.

“Fuck yeah.”


End file.
